Happiness in the Palm of My Hand
I stood before the mirror, examining myself—the long face, the sharp nose, the thin lips, and those cold, pale grey eyes. Why did I have to be so plain? The only thing I liked was my hair—thick and black, with a fringe that fell right into my eyes.
“You take after your father. He was handsome—I wouldn’t have fallen for him otherwise. His roots trace back to the highlands,” Mum would say, trying to comfort me. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Yours is a refined beauty. Not everyone will appreciate it.”
I never knew my father. He left before I turned two. What I did remember was Uncle Rob—a loud, red-faced man always full of jokes. He’d toss me in the air, laughing, and never arrived empty-handed—always sweets, biscuits, or some cheap toy. I loved clambering onto his lap as a child, breathing in his scent. Mum later told me it was the smell of expensive cigars and whisky. Back then, she seemed happy with him. Even now, I associate that scent with what a real man should smell like.
When I was older, I asked Mum why they never married.
“He had a wife. A son, too.” Even years later, the bitterness in her voice lingered.
Then came Uncle Bill. But I drove him away myself. He smelled of petrol and old socks—short, scrawny, with a potato nose and a slack lower lip that left his mouth perpetually half-open. His downturned eyes gave him a permanently mournful look. He rarely smiled, always arriving with a bottle of wine or vodka and a bar of chocolate.
“What’s dinner without wine?” he’d say, catching the disapproval in twelve-year-old Lydia’s glare. “Helps unwind after a hard day’s work.”
At first, Mum only sipped. Then she grew fond of it. Soon, she bought bottles herself. If Uncle Bill didn’t show, she drank alone at the kitchen table, weeping. I wasn’t stupid—I knew where this was leading. One day, while Mum was out, I turned to Uncle Bill and asked point-blank:
“Are you married?”
He flinched, blinking rapidly. “How’d you know?”
“Leave. Right now,” I demanded.
“Since when do you call the shots, you little brat? I came to see your mother, not you.”
“That means me too. And I don’t like you. Leave, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was scared or not, I never saw him again. Mum cried, drank, and waited.
“Enough. If you don’t stop, I’ll walk out. Hear me?” I snatched the bottle and poured it down the sink.
She sobbed, blaming me for ruining her chances at love. But she stopped drinking. Once a striking beauty with fiery red hair, age had dulled her glow, thinning her locks into grey. Fewer men came knocking—first a trickle, then none at all, much to my relief.
After school, I enrolled in teacher training college.
“With your looks, that’s about all you’ll manage,” Mum once spat bitterly.
I met Daniel at a student festival. He started courting me straight away—easy, interesting, reliable. Never rushed, never pushed for a kiss. I grew used to his steady presence. When, in our second year, he nervously proposed, I hesitated. We were students—how would we live?
“Don’t be a fool,” Mum sighed. “With your face and temper, you won’t find better. He’s kind, doesn’t drink, from a good family… What more do you want?”
So I said yes. After a modest wedding, we moved into his tiny flat—cramped kitchen, narrow hallway, paper-thin walls. His father had passed two years prior from a heart attack, and Daniel wouldn’t leave his mother alone.
At night, I could never relax, knowing his mum was just beyond the wall, listening. Everything was rushed, hushed. Children? Impossible under these conditions. Mornings were spent avoiding eyes.
His mother ruled the tiny kitchen, content. If I offered to help, she’d shoo me away—”Plenty of time for that later.”
Money was tight. Two student grants and a pension didn’t stretch far. Daniel took night shifts as a warehouse guard—two nights on, two off. I didn’t mind. I dreamed of moving to London after graduation, like so many did. But Daniel refused—he wouldn’t leave his mum.
Even when she visited her sister for a few days, old habits held—love-making remained furtive, quick.
“Let’s get a mortgage,” I pleaded. “Visit her daily, but live apart.”
“And spend my whole wage on repayments? Be patient—we’ll stand on our own feet soon.”
Then came the conference—three days in Brighton, a reprieve from lessons, my husband, that stifling flat. Among the sea of women vying for male attention, one man stood out: handsome Adrian Lockwood. The others preened, giggled, batted lashes. I watched, amused—youngest there, least interested.
Bored by a dreary lecture, I slipped out to the lobby. Adrian followed.
“Dreadful, isn’t it? Fancy a walk? Else you’ll leave having seen nothing.”
I agreed. Early April—snow melted, waves choppy on the grey Channel, sleet stinging our faces. The town flickered between fog and sudden, glaring sun.
“Brighton weather—changeable as a woman’s mood,” Adrian quipped.
We never returned to the conference that day. His car whisked us to historic lanes. It happened there, in some quiet alley—awkward, cramped, feverish. But I was used to discomfort. That night, I stayed at his place.
Next morning, we entered the hall late together. “Him? With that hook-nosed scarecrow?” their stares sneered.
When the conference ended, I lingered with Adrian. Called home, lied about flu—”Don’t want to spread it.” Even coughed for effect.
“Leave that purgatory. What holds you there?” Adrian urged after I confessed my marriage.
He’d been married briefly—ex-wife remarried, moved to Canada with their daughter.
“Why me?” I asked.
“Why not? You’re extraordinary—like some exotic bird blown off course. The rest? Walking rulebooks. You belong on screen.” His hand traced my bare shoulder.
“I can’t just leave—but I’ll think on it.”
The whole journey home, I weighed his offer. Stepping into that cramped flat, regret struck instantly. Daniel welcomed me quietly, held back. I dreaded nightfall—he’d want me. But he left for his shift. For the first time in days, I slept deeply.
Remembering Adrian’s spacious Brighton flat, I raised the mortgage again. Again, Daniel pleaded patience.
“I can’t live like this anymore. We’re like siblings! You’ll never change. We’ll never have our own place. No child would want to be born here—soon, I won’t even be able to conceive!” I hissed that night.
“I knew this was coming. I don’t blame you. You returned different…”
Next day, I took unpaid leave and fled to Brighton. Adrian was delighted—but a night’s fling and cohabitation were worlds apart. I missed Daniel’s teasing, our easy talks. Years together had woven him into me. I lay awake, picturing him alone.
Adrian grew frustrated by my guilty fretting over my “loser” husband. Nights were sleepless. No relationship was perfect, I knew—yet I couldn’t adjust to Adrian’s sprawling bed, longing for Daniel.
Turns out, I couldn’t cook either. Burnt potatoes, mushy pasta—Daniel’s mother had always done it. Adrian skipped breakfast, lunched at work, took me out evenings. It only deepened my regret.
One sleepless night, as I agonised over my choice, the phone rang.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Ran off, did you? Left your husband? Knew you would—just like your father.”
“You called at 3 AM for this?”
“Daniel’s in hospital. Armed robbers at the warehouse—he triggered the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” I shrieked, forgetting Adrian beside me.
“For now. In a coma.”
“What’s happened?” Adrian rubbed his eyes.
“I have to go. Now.”
“Wait till morning—I’ll drive you.”
“No. Call me a cab.”
First flight out. Taxi to the station. Two hours on a stuffy train. Reached the hospital at dawn—no quicker than driving. They wouldn’t let me in at first.
“Please—he’s my husband!” I sobbed until a nurse fetched a gown.
There he lay—pale, bandaged, wires snaking to machines. I clutched his limp hand, pressed my cheek to it.
“I’m here. I came back. Forgive me. Just live—I won’t leave again.”
Staff tried prying me away, then relentedAs I held Daniel’s hand, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, I realized that true happiness had been with me all along—quiet, patient, and forgiving, like the man who never stopped waiting.
